


Two Cab Rides in New York City

by severalkittens



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-03 23:29:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17293361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/severalkittens/pseuds/severalkittens
Summary: Eric pulls up Dele’s hoodie, gently draws the strings tight, and ties them snug beneath his nose. He’s Jesus-carrying his teammate through Williamsburg at 4 am, and while he doesn’t particularly think any Americans are going to recognize them, he can’t be sure.Chapter titles are the prompts.





	1. “I think you’re actually Satan.”

It started out as a fun night. Some of the boys wanted to go out in Williamsburg, so they took taxis from their Manhattan hotel, and spilled out onto the crowded streets of Brooklyn’s most gentrified neighborhood. Eric was overwhelmed; it was 11 pm, and every open establishment seemed to be a bar or club of some kind. 

“Oi, you!” Dele shouted at some girls clattering by in heels. They giggled, barely sparing him a glance as they rushed past.

“Stop it!” hissed Harry Kane. “You’re too recognizable, you’re going to ruin it! Dier, you do it!”

“What exactly are you trying to say about Dier, huh?” said Dele, smirking and winking at Eric. Harry stammered, but Eric just shrugged. Harry was probably right; he was a pretty generic white boy. 

“Excuse me! Ma’am!” Eric called. He blinked in surprise when the group of girls actually stopped. 

“It’s the viking beard, must really do it for the inhabitants of Williamsburg, Brooklyn,” he heard Dele snicker behind him.

“Sorry,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets and clearing his throat. “We’re not from around here. Can you recommend any good bars around here?” Dele was still laughing at him, but it didn’t matter—the girls pointed them towards a bar around the corner and bid their farewells. 

Eric’s first thought upon entering the establishment was something like “oh god, we’ve made a huge mistake”. It was dark, smelled of stale beer, and pretty empty. There were giant silver bowls of cheese puffs evenly spaced on the bar, a few errant orange balls scattered here and there. Nothing on the drinks menu was over $10. 

“When in Rome,” he thought, helped himself to a cheese puff, and asked the bartender for the $5 special. A few seconds later, he received a can of some American beer and a shot of what was surely the cheapest whiskey Eric would ever have. “This’ll be fine,” he thought to himself. “I’ll finish my drinks, avoid the dance floor, and cab back to the hotel, be in bed by midnight.”

“Eric! They have drinks made out of Gatorade!” Dele said with a glint in his eye. That glint never meant anything good. Next thing he knew, he had finished his cheap whiskey and beer, and Dele was shoving a second (no, a third?) Gatorade-rita into his hand. Who thought it would be a good idea to mix a lemon-lime sports drink with tequila, anyway?

Harry Kane and Harry Winks had dipped in a cab an hour earlier. Eric knew he should’ve gone with him, but Dele whined and grabbed at his hand. He looked up at Eric with puppy dog eyes and Eric knew he would stay, knew he would have another drink. Now it’s 3:30 in the morning and Eric is drunk. But Eric is bigger than Dele. Dele is totally shitfaced. Eric realizes when Dele starts slurring his words, starts leaning his head against Eric’s shoulder, practically sliding out of his seat.

“Ok, buddy, time to go!” Eric grabs Dele under the arms and tries to right him on his barstool. Dele takes it as an excuse to wrap his arms around Eric’s neck and lean into his shoulder. 

“I want to dance, do you want to dance?” says Dele. Eric groans. Dele’s forehead is on Eric’s neck. He can feel moist lips brushing his collarbone. He shivers, and decides none of this is really happening.

“Sure, Delboy, whatever you want.” He still has no intention of dancing. But if he gets Dele on his feet, maybe he can get him into a cab without anyone noticing. Dele mumbles something he can’t quite make out.

“Ok, ok, up you go!” He hoists Dele onto his feet and grabs him around the waist with a sturdy arm. “Time to walk.” Dele obeys. Just as Eric suspected, Dele doesn’t notice when they don’t head into the dancing crowd. He turns his friend toward the door and steers him outside.

Eric pulls up Dele’s hoodie, gently draws the strings tight, and ties them snug beneath his nose. He’s Jesus-carrying his teammate through Williamsburg at 4 am, and while he doesn’t particularly think any Americans are going to recognize them, he can’t be sure. They are quite a pair, after all.

They stumble a little as they round the corner. Eric sees what he’s looking for; an open cab rolling down the street. He throws out a hand. He’s a little worried it won’t stop for them, because Dele is visibly drunk, but the cab pulls up to the curb anyway. Eric opens the door, dumps Dele inside, and gives the cab driver the name of their hotel. 

Dele is mumbling loudly again but Eric can’t hear what he’s saying. His voice is muffled by the sweatshirt. Eric carefully unties the strings and eases the hood back over Dele’s head.

“-thought you wanted to dance with me but instead you throw me in the back of a fucking cab!” Dele spits out the word fucking like it’s poison. “You, and your blue eyes, and your blonde hair, and your fucking dumbass sweater,” Dele rolls his eyes maliciously. “I think you’re actually Satan.”

“Del-“

“No, don’t you Del at me! Harry was right that no one would recognize you. You know why? Because you’re nobody.” Dele stares at him as if expecting a response. Eric knows it’s not true, and he knows he doesn’t care. He also knows Dele (or, sober Dele anyway) knows that too. He decides to let it go, says nothing at all. Dele crosses his arms and looks away, a small frown creasing his forehead. Eric leans his head against the window and closes his eyes, knowing Dele’s attitude will pass soon.

So he’s shocked when he looks back up. Dele’s lip is wobbling, and fat, drunk tears are pooled in the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill over at any second. Dele looks down into his lap to avoid eye contact and the tears spill over, splashing onto his grey hoodie, splotches spreading where they land. Eric’s drunk brain hasn’t quite caught up yet so he sits there, speechless, as Dele’s composure breaks and he starts to cry. 

The cab screeches to a halt at a red light and Eric’s senses return to him. Dele’s covered his face with the sleeves of his sweatshirt. Eric catches hold of a damp, snotty sleeve and tugs. “Dele,” he says, “what’s wrong?” 

Dele hiccups out a few more sobs, and then looks up at Eric through hooded eyes. “You said you would dance with me,” says Dele quietly. The corners of his mouth are turned down. He looks absolutely miserable. Even though Eric knows it’s just a drunk tantrum, it tugs at his heartstrings. 

“Del, you’re drunk. You couldn’t stand up right now if you tried.” Eric says gently. He slides his fingers around Dele’s wrist in what he hopes is a comforting manner. Dele wipes at his nose with his other sleeve, tears still pouring down his face. He hasn’t said anything else, and Eric is at a bit of a loss here. He just wants Dele to stop crying, so he puts on his brightest face and says, “I’ll dance with you tomorrow. Promise!”

Dele bursts into fresh tears. It’s totally the opposite of what Eric was expecting. He pulls Dele across the seat into his arms and pats him awkwardly on the back of the neck. He doesn’t want to think about the mess Dele’s leaving on his sweater. “Shhhhh,” he whispers. “It’s ok.”

Dele pulls back, a comically affronted expression on his face. Eric almost laughs at the absurd look. “It’s not ok, Dier! It’s not!” He sniffs. “All night, no, scratch that, all year you’ve been flirting with me. You touch me all the time, you joke with me, you text me in the middle of the night. You cook me dinner! And just when I think it’s real. Just when I think we’re getting to the next level, you pull back!”

Eric doesn’t feel like laughing anymore. He’s speechless, so Dele continues. “You say you want to dance, and you throw me in a cab. It’s not fair. You’re beautiful, and you treat me like… like… a girlfriend. But you don’t actually want me.” And then so quietly Eric can barely hear it, “You’ve been leading me on, Dier. I can’t take it anymore.” With that, he turns away from Eric, and cries into the window instead.

“Del, I-“ Eric tries to start a sentence but the words won’t come out. He doesn’t know what he even wants to say anyway. He closes his mouth and turns to stare out the window, too.

They’re driving over the Manhattan bridge right now. Eric gloomily watches midtown twinkle out his window. He’s totally blindsided; he had no idea Dele felt that way. He hopes that it’s just a drunk tantrum, but a little voice in the back of his head reminds him, “drunk words come from sober thoughts.” He rests his chin on his hands. “You’ve been leading me on, Dier,” Dele had said. Has he been? If Eric’s being honest, he never considered that Dele’s feelings might be anything other than friendship. 

He thinks back over the years he’s known Dele. Dele’s always been there for him, answered every text, watched every movie, eaten every bite of food Eric had ever asked him to. Eric always thought he’d done the same for Dele. He always plays FIFA when Dele asks, always keeps Fanta in his fridge just for Dele, always takes another drink when Dele hands him ones.

But then he thinks about the calls he doesn’t answer, thinking he’ll just see Dele at training the next day. He thinks about all the times Dele’s asked him to stay over and keep him company, and Eric’s said no because he had to feed the dogs. The times Dele has slipped his hand into Eric’s, and Eric has tugged away, because it’s just Dele and he can’t be serious. Eric guesses he’s been totally blind.

The cab pulls up at their hotel. Eric rounds the car to open the door for Dele, but the driver’s already done it. Dele glares at him through red, puffy eyes and Eric jerks back the arm he’d started to hold out for his friend. The cab drives away with a screech, and Dele and Eric are left standing on the sidewalk. Dele takes a few staggering steps, leans over, and vomits into a plant next to the hotel door. Eric rushes to his side and puts a hand on his back. For a second, he thinks Dele’s going to let Eric touch him. But then he shrugs his shoulder, wipes his mouth, and turns to look at Eric. 

“Don’t you dare touch me,” he hisses. Eric doesn’t dare. So he holds up his hands and walks inside, leaving Dele to retch into the plant alone.


	2. "You smell like a wet dog!"

Eric can’t believe they’re out again after what happened last night. This time, they’re in a fancy cocktail lounge in Manhattan. He sits there stirring his martini. He is _seriously_ not going to have more than one drink. He looks over at Dele and sees he’s nursing a margarita. Dele catches his eye and raises his glass. Eric raises his in return. They go back to their separate conversations, Dele to a flushed, laughing Harry Winks, and Eric to Jan Vertonghen. He guesses that’s the best he can expect.

As Eric fell asleep the night before, he told himself everything would be alright. Told himself he’d be awakened by a knock on the door- Dele, apologizing. Eric would apologize, too. He’d tell Dele he understands, that he just wants to make him happy. If that means trying out the next step, he’s ready. He’d pat the bed next to him and Dele would squeeze under his arm, tentative in the uncharted territory, but close.

But instead, Eric had woken up on his own, feeling like there was a 10kg kettlebell sitting on his chest. He had remembered everything from last night; sleep hadn’t been kind enough to take it from him. There had been no peace, no blissful moment of ignorance before reality set in.

He’d missed team breakfast, but still had a few hours left until afternoon training. Much to Eric’s disappointment, Dele hadn’t tried to contact him at all. Eric had groaned and pulled a pillow over his head. If he went back to sleep, maybe Dele would be there when he woke up. Besides, if he was unconscious, he couldn’t feel the crushing guilt of carelessly hurting his best friend.

Dele still hadn’t been there the second time Eric had woken up. So Eric just went about his business like nothing was wrong. Dele seemed to have a similar plan. He’d pranced onto the bus with Sonny, grinning, wearing his brightest yellow track pants, and a gold windbreaker. Eric didn’t really get how he wasn’t hungover. He guessed throwing up probably helped, and so did being 22.

“What’sa matter Dier, you don’t like my outfit?” Dele had been smirking at him same as always, but his face was a little too pale and his smile was a little too wide. So that was it, Dele was going to pretend like nothing happened. Maybe it would work on everyone else, but Eric knew better. Dele was hiding, and Eric didn’t know how he felt about that.

On one hand, he’s glad Dele is speaking to him, laughing with him, treating him normally. But on the other hand, Eric didn’t really think he could go back now. Dele’s admission the night before had dredged up a flood of unacknowledged feelings in Eric. The way Dele’s eyes sparkled, the way he squeezed Eric’s shoulders when he carried him on his back. His fierce style of play on the pitch, and the even fiercer way he loved Eric. He can’t just put all those feelings back. He’d probably explode.

“Eric,” said Jan, waving his drink in front of Eric’s face. “Earth to Eric! Did you hear anything I just said?”

“Sorry,” Eric chuckles and dips his head, “I can’t say that I did. Try me again” And he tries, for the sake of his teammates, not to think any more about Dele.

It’s much later, but Eric has stuck to his one drink rule. The lights are dim, the music is louder, and there’s a crowd of people dancing on the floor. He spots Dele sitting at the bar staring into the dregs of his one margarita. His guard is down, finally. Eric thinks this might be a good time to talk to him. He watches Dele poking ice cubes around in his glass with his cocktail straw. Dele takes the straw between his teeth and chews on it, frowning. _He’s so beautiful_ , Eric thinks, watching the way the tiny straw presses into Dele’s bottom lip.

“You’re making puppy dog eyes,” says Jan quietly into Eric’s ear. Eric looks up, startled. Jan’s watching him knowingly. Eric fidgets with the napkin in his hand and looks away. He doesn’t have the energy to deny it.

“Just go,” says Jan.

“Fine,” Eric hisses back.

He walks over to Dele and sets his empty margarita glass on the bar over Dele’s shoulder. “Can I buy you another drink?” he says. Like most Manhattan bars, the space is tiny. The seat next to Dele is taken, so Eric has to stand chest pressed against Dele’s left shoulder, effectively boxing Dele into the corner. He hopes that’s ok.

Dele looks up at him and hesitates, straw still hanging from his mouth. “Sure,” he says, a smile finally spreading across his face. “But make it a vodka soda. I can’t handle another night like last night.” Eric holds Dele’s eyes a little bit longer. He wonders whether he just means all the alcohol, or whether he’s referring to what happened between them. Dele nods his head ever so slightly at the bartender, and Eric decides to laugh it off.

“Two vodka sodas, please.” He’s glad to have something to look at other than Dele for a minute. He’s extremely overwhelmed by their closeness, and the way Dele’s shoulder is touching Eric’s chest. He thinks he can feel Dele leaning into him a little bit, but in such close quarters it’s hard to tell. He can smell whatever Dele puts in his hair, and it’s making him feel a little bit high.

The bartender sets down two vodka sodas and Eric pays. He gets the tip wrong twice, he’s so distracted thinking about what he’s going to say. _Why_ _are_ _you_ _pretending_ _like_ _last_ _night_ _didn’t_ _happen_? No, that’s not right. _Are_ _you_ _ok_? Too ambiguous. _Sorry_ _for_ _the_ _last_ _three_ _years_. _I’m_ _here_ _for_ _you_ , _however_ _you_ _want_ _me_. But he doesn’t want to spring the conversation on Dele on the off-chance he doesn’t remember. _I_ _love_ _you_. He crushes the lime and pokes it into his drink.

Dele sips his drink through the cocktail straw, and turns sideways on his stool so he’s facing Eric. He’s swinging one of his legs back and forth, and the other is pressed against Eric’s thigh, just above his knee. He’s looking at Eric like he’s daring him to say something. Eric dares.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he says softly, raising his hand to Dele’s arm.

Dele looks down, swinging foot slowing. “Yeah,” he says.

Eric is hyperaware of their legs are touching. He wonders if Dele is too. “Dele-“ Eric starts.

“Eric,” says Dele at the same time. Eric lets him. “I wish I hadn’t gotten so drunk last night. But I meant every word I said.” Eric can see the hurt in Dele’s eyes and he feels another pang of guilt. He had sort of been expecting an apology, even though part of him didn’t really think he deserved it.

“I know,” he whispers, circling his hand around Dele’s arm. He can’t bring himself to look into Dele’s haunted eyes anymore so he leans over to whisper in his ear. “You were right,” he says, and finally, “I’m sorry.”

“What are you saying, Dier?” Dele whispers, breath hot against his ear. Eric feels a chill go down his spine. He swallows.

“I’m here for you. I’m here however you want me.” He draws back his head to look Dele in the eye. Dele places his hands on Eric’s sides. Eric steps closer like Dele’s a magnet drawing him in. “I mean it,” he adds, because Dele’s looking at him like he might be a hallucination. Their foreheads are pressed together, and Eric can feel Dele’s breath on his lips. The heat between them is intoxicating.

He’s about to lean forward and gently press his lips to Dele's when he remembers they’re in a public place with the rest of his teammates. They need to go somewhere much more private, like right now. He pulls back and shakes his head a little to clear it. Dele stares at him with accusing eyes. Eric licks his lips. “Maybe we shouldn’t-“

“I knew it!” Dele yells, pushing Eric away from him. He stumbles backwards, bumping into a waitress behind him. A vodka soda tumbles off her tray and splashes down Eric’s shoulder. “You’re fucking with me! Practically making out with me in the bar and then ‘oh, maybe we shouldn’t.’ I knew you weren’t in it.” Dele stands up, glaring Eric down. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” And with that, Dele runs out of the bar, leaving Eric standing there soaked with vodka, half hard, and stunned into silence for the second time in two nights.

 

Eric walks back to the table, still a little shell shocked. Jan takes one look at his face and reaches out a hand. “Eric! What the hell happened? I heard a commotion.”

“He left,” Eric says. “He fucking left,” and he laughs bitterly. “I told him. Was about to suggest we go somewhere more private. He assumed I didn’t want to at all, and just, took off.” He looks down the end of the table where Dele had been sitting before. “Left all his stuff here too. Phone, jacket, wallet. What am I supposed to do now?” He looks at Jan questioningly, even though he already knows the answer.

Jan rolls his eyes at Eric. “Do I really have to say it again?”

Eric shakes his head, grabs his stuff and Dele’s, and runs out. It’s still raining. He has no idea where he’s even supposed to find Dele. He knows it’s supposed to be a grid, but New York is a maze to him, and there are bars, eateries, and god knows what advertising themselves on every block. He has no idea where Dele would have gone. He feels like he might cry. But now he’s determined to make Dele listen, to set things right. So he comes up with a plan.

First, he takes out his phone and texts Jan. _Text me if he comes back, ok?_

_Sure thing, godspeed._ Jan responds, almost immediately.

Next, he flags down a cab. He doesn’t really have a plan. He’s just going to ask the guy to drive around aimlessly and try to find Dele. “Look, I have a lot of money,” he tells the guy. “I’ll pay you $500 for this I just need you to help me find my friend. Just like, drive around”

“Aren’t you Eric Dier?” says the cab driver in a gruff New York accent.

“What the- yes, I’m Eric Dier.” _Fucking of course,_ he thinks to himself, and runs a hand over his face. “I’ll give you an extra $200 to forget about it.”

“Don’ worry aboutit! I’m a diehard Spurs fan, as was my father before me. Come On You Spurs!” And he speeds away from the curb. They drive around Manhattan aimlessly. It’s easier said than done. It seems like everyone in Manhattan is coming or going from somewhere or other, and they spend a lot of time stopped at red lights. They spend a lot of time stopped at green lights for that matter too. It’s also raining, which is making it almost impossible to see. Still, it’s not all bad. The driver occasionally asks Eric questions about the goings on at Spurs, and although Eric’s distracted, he answers as best he can.

It’s almost 2 am when the driver points shouts, “there he is!”

Eric turns to look, and sure enough, it’s Dele, walking up 7th Ave in his t-shirt, in the rain. “How did you-?” he starts to say, but the cab driver fixes him with a look. “Right, Spurs fan.” Of course the driver knows he's looking for Dele.

The driver pulls over the cab, puts on his flashers. Eric rushes out.

“Dele!” he cries. Dele turns around and stops. Eric jogs slightly to catch up with him. Dele is rain-soaked and pissed off and completely stunning. Eric abandons all caution and throws his arms around him. “You’re freezing!” He smushes his face into Dele’s neck. “You smell like a wet dog!”

“Dier, what are you-“ Eric pulls back a little, still holding Dele firmly in his arms.

“Dele shut up and listen to me once. You’re a fucking dumbass. In the bar? You wouldn’t let me get my goddamn sentence out. I was going to say we shouldn’t do this here. I wanted to take it somewhere more private.” He takes both of Dele’s hands in his. “I wanted to get out of there, together. But instead you went running off in the rain by yourself.”

Dele’s grinning, although he looks like he knows better. He succeeds in keeping a straight face for a split second, long enough to say “Jesus, I’m so sorry Dier.” He wraps his arms around Eric’s waist and buries his face into Eric’s chest. Eric can tell he’s still got a smile on. Even though Eric is frustrated, he can’t help but smile too.

“Look at me,” says Eric. Dele does. “If we’re going to do this, we gotta get better at communicating.”

“I know,” says Dele serious for once. “I have to get better at telling you what I need.”

“And I have to get better at asking,” counters Eric.

“Ask me what I need right now,” says Dele, gazing up at Eric, water dripping off his nose onto his chin.

“Dele, what do you need right now?” Eric asks, breathlessly.

“I need you to kiss me.”

Eric does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks!

**Author's Note:**

> My ethnography teacher told me to practice writing fiction. Here I am, practicing. Feedback is appreciated.


End file.
